


Him, of a Thousand Masks

by crimson_adder



Series: men, monsters, miracles [1]
Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Crossover, Gen, Gods, Lady Loki, Loki Does What He Wants, Mythology - Freeform, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Thought Forms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimson_adder/pseuds/crimson_adder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki is supposed to be in prison in Asgard. But instead he's in Denmark. He's in the Caribbean, and Afghanistan. Paris and Las Vegas. </p><p>Thor was supposed to be visiting his parents. But he's in Iceland. </p><p> </p><p>(5 times the Avengers met a Loki they thought they knew, and 1 time they met Thor)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Him, of a Thousand Masks

**Author's Note:**

> so there I was, listening to American Gods on audiobook, thinking to myself "wow, so mythology, how fiction", and with all of the Coming to America bits I decided there wan't nearly enough Avengers/American Gods crossovers, because that's clearly a perfect match (amiright)
> 
> so I made one. :'D
> 
> (sorry, going through and editing thingssssss)

**1\. Bringer of Gifts**  


 

It's the weekend, this is the last call for drinks and Natasha has her mark twisted around her fingers. It's already light in København, and not quite 3 AM. Kurt Kolker, arms dealer and amateur reggae-artist, is drunk and leaning on Natasha's arm, listing towards her across the narrow space between their stools, whispering state secrets into her cleavage, when she sees someone familiar behind the bar.

He's not a bartender, she would have seen him earlier. He looks more like a busboy. Long black hair pulled back at the nape of his white neck and a stained apron wrapped around his narrow hips.

She stops listening to Kolker for a hot second while the vodka in her drink scorches down her airway. Kolker blinks blearily at her while she chokes and sputters, then smiles, oblivious, as she gets back into character by giggling abashedly and swaying into the softness of his arms.

The sun is peaking out over the Central Station and Natasha has already passed her information on to Agent Trent when she comes back an hour later. She thinks about Coulson. 

The tall man she thought she recognized is standing in the alley. He's not as thin as she remembers him, but the long face, long legs, long fingers clutching a cigarette are all the same. He breathes in and the orange glow lights up the high arches of his eyebrows, and make his eyes spark like there's a fire inside him. There's something odd about the way he holds his cigarette, and Natasha realizes it's because it's backwards; the filter ripped off, and the logo burned first, to leave no identification. It's a confidence trick.

"Loki," she says. She steps around the corner and points her gun at him.

When he looks up he is not surprised. His eyebrow quirks anyway.

"What are you doing here?" 

Loki blows smoke out of his nose like a dragon, then tilts his head so it doesn't get in his eyes.

"I could ask you that," he says, and then he says "You seem to have the advantage of me."

He sucks in another lung-full of smoke and Natasha can see deep shadows where the scars on his lips tighten and pull.

"Are you saying you don't remember?" She clicks the safety back and thinks maybe she should start requisitioning bigger guns. She's sent an alert to JARVIS, hasn't told S.H.I.E.L.D., and if it's before 5 AM in Denmark, then it's not quite 11 in New York. That could mean Stark is lounging about the Avengers penthouse, or that he's hold up in his lab with Banner, or possibly wreaking havoc in high society. Either way it's still a two hour trip for Iron Man.

"I remember a lot of things," says Loki. "Do you want to come inside?"

"Lead the way."

The interior of the bar is more brightly lit than it had been when it was open, fluorescent lights humming overhead that ruin the old-school smoky atmosphere. Loki sets a bottle of Stolichnaya and two shot glasses on the counter, and then he turns his back and starts washing dishes. His fingers are quick and practiced, and Natasha is slowly losing track of what's going on and whether or not she's in control.

"Fuck it," she says. The cap cracks when she opens it, and she fills Loki's glass too. "К черту все."

"Skål," says Loki, and he knocks back his shot with Natasha.

Loki washes glasses, moves on to plates, then silverware. He wipes his hands on his black apron every so often, and Natasha watches him, growing increasingly bemused and intoxicated.

"What are you even doing here?" she remembers to ask again, twenty minutes later.

"My job," says Loki. "What are you doing here?"

"Mine."

"Your job is to make bad men make fools of themselves?" There's something vicious and smug in his voice, and he looks at her over his shoulder, wringing a rag over a brandy snifter.

"More or less."

"I liked what you did with Kolker. I'm a fan of your work."

"You weren't before."

"Have we met before?" And when he looks at her it's not with surprise, feigned or otherwise, but with a smooth and calculating glare that says she should know the answer, and she'd better respond correctly, or he'll be terribly disappointed.

She studies him, properly. And somehow, aside from that face she knows from the glass cage, from Stuttgart, the curling lips, the high forehead, the sharp cheekbones, the jade chips of his eyes, there is something else. She sees him, and also she sees a spark - the kind that starts a wildfire. 

Behind the man who terrorized New York is a giant, 9 feet tall, maybe taller, and the giant's eyes are red.

Thick black thread cuts deep furrows into the skin of his mouth, even as he bares his teeth in a grin, and his lips twist and stretch horribly.

Around his narrow wrists are a black watch and a small hair-tie for pulling back his hair when he preps food, but also there are the broken remains of iron shackles. The chains are twisted and organic rather than forged, bulging and ropy in turns, and it makes Natasha sick to look at them.

And then he's just a man. Tall and pale and handsome. He's tired, he's worked a long day, and his knuckles are red from washing dishes.

"I guess not." 

Natasha pours another shot, and they toast. 

"Lokke," says a man's voice.

Natasha stiffens when the man steps up to the bar beside her. Loki had locked the alley door behind them, and she could see the front door from where she sat, and there were no other entrances, which meant that the big man in the pale suit had somehow slipped in without her noticing and that hasn't happened in years.

He is enormous, tall and broad, and he fills the space in the bar with more than just his physical presence. 

Loki doesn't seem particularly bothered.

"Whiskey Sour?" he smirks. "Or a shot off the top shelf?"

The man in the pale suit doesn't look nearly as amused. He has a beard and an eyepatch, and he holds a felt hat in his big hands. 

"You're late, slanderer. The ship of night has sailed and we've got shit to do. Move your ass."

"Come now, Wotan. It's washing day, and I'm entertaining. Pull up a stool and loosen your girdle for once."

"It's fine," says Natasha, more than ready to leave these men who are not men, and who are so much more than the not-men she works with on a regular basis. "I should go too."

Lokke, who is not Loki (but is, also), smiles broad and not really all that friendly at her. 

He closes up, while Wotan stands as still and impatiently as possible. Natasha can picture him tapping his foot and checking his big, expensive watch, even as he doesn't move a muscle.

Lokke unlocks the door to let them all out, and Natasha stands in the cold morning sunlight for a long moment, gathering her bearings and her thoughts. Iron Man will probably be here soon. Maybe she can hitch a ride back to New York, and then at some point she'll figure out what to tell the other Avengers.

"Good seeing you, Agent Romanova," Lokke calls.

They walk at a slow, steady pace, but cover a lot of distance, pavement eaten up by long legs.

Wotan wraps an arm around Lokke's narrow waist. Lokke's arm falls across Wotan's shoulders naturally, and Natasha thinks that they are more extensions of each other, than anything else. Not like brothers, or lovers, or even father and son.

"Увидимся," she says. "Удачи."

When Iron Man lands twenty minutes later, Natasha is well on her way to finishing off that bottle of Stoli on the side of the pavement. Stark makes a confused circle in the middle of the street, looking for trouble, but there's nothing but Natasha, getting drunk off a gift of vodka from a god.

"You're my ride home," she says. She holds her heels in one hand, her bottle in the other, and the gun is put away in the holster on her thigh.

"Everything groovy?" Stark says, faceplate snapping up.

"Not even a little bit. I'll probably tell you about it later, it seemed like your kind of party. Come on, I gotta pee. "

\---

 

**2\. Most-Cunning**

 

Bruce is on vacation from the Avengers. Tony Stark owns land on (or possibly just owns) one of the small islands in the Caribbean without a name, and has gifted it to Bruce for several months to use as a base of Vacational Operations. 

The island itself is about the size of a city block, and consists of a sprawling mansion with manicured lawns on a tall plateau in the middle of several acres of white sand and palm trees. 

Every day Bruce is ferried back and forth to Saint John and Saint Thomas in a tiny motorboat piloted by Timothy, a 14 year old boy from Saint Andrews and who is well on his way to charming all of Bruce's money out of his pockets in tips. Bruce goes into town and helps out at the clinics, he bikes around the island roads in between the minibuses and the mo-peds, and he spends the evenings in the privacy of Tony's island beaches and sleeps in the warm salty air, under the stars. It's less stressful than Kolkata, the people are friendlier than in New York, and after the last fight with Doom he enjoys the quiet. He hasn't seen the Other Guy in weeks, and hasn't even had to fight him off.

It's a Saturday when Timothy takes Bruce on an adventure to Saint Andrews, and Bruce wanders into a small cafe for lunch. The air outside is hazy with heat rising from the streets. He doesn't recognize the white man in the corner until he hears someone laugh out loud, cackling and hooting like he'd just heard the funniest story in his whole damn life. Everyone in the cafe looks about, grinning like they can't help it, because the old man's laughter is contagious. 

Between the two of them, they stand out. The white man is almost colorless, milk pale skin and blue veins and raven black hair. The old black man wears a lime green fedora and a hounds tooth jacket and lemon yellow gloves despite the heat of the day, and he claps his hands as he laughs and his feet stomp under the table and his coffee spills out onto the little saucer under his cup.

The white man smirks. It's a cold little smirk, and Bruce knows who he is.

Bruce doesn't really stop to think about what he does next, and then he's sitting down at their table next to a tyrant demigod and a stranger.

"Doctor Banner," says Loki with a nod, and Bruce wonders why he hadn't recognized him immediately. His hair is shorter, kept off his neck perhaps in deference to the heat, but that's not an important difference.

"Fancy meeting you here," Bruce says. He can feel the rumble of the Other Guy in the pit of his belly, but it's nothing he needs to worry about. Yet.

The old man isn't laughing any more, but he's grinning wide and gleefully under his pencil thin moustache, like he's got a hundred secrets and they're all about Bruce.

"Visiting friends," Loki smiles. His smile is sharp like silver and his eyes are blacker than Bruce remembers them being. "Mr. Nancy, this is Bruce Banner, one of the forerunners in gamma radiation research. Dr. Banner, Mr. Nancy, an old acquaintance."

"Charmed," says Bruce. He doesn't offer his hand, and neither does Mr. Nancy.

Mr. Nancy just looks at him and smiles.

Bruce prides himself on having learned to watch, and observe, ever since the accident. In the years of mayhem and angst that have followed him, he has practiced stepping back to look and understand things before he jumps to conclusions.

"You're not Loki," he says, abruptly, before he's even finished his thought, so it comes out and he doesn't actually mean it.

Mr. Nancy slaps him upside the head. 

"Don't be rude, boy," he says, still grinning. "You must be stupid, to be so rude."

"Nancy, he's a guest," says Loki with a demure smile.

"He ain't my guest," Mr. Nancy scoffs. "You see me invite him over, I did not, he just sat himself down at my table and I did not invite him." He sounds like he's making fun of Bruce, and probably also Loki, and mostly like he's joking. Only mostly though.

Bruce can't figure out what that means.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Nancy," he says, because that's probably his best bet. "Would you mind if I talked to Loki for a minute?"

"What do I mind?" snorts Mr. Nancy. "We spiders, we love to talk, almost as much as we love to eat! So many good stories, and all they takes is words to sing and the brains to listen. I tell you," he says, leaning forward and peering at Bruce intently with narrow black eyes. "One time, when I was a younger man, not nearly so handsome as I am now, I was talkin' to Nyame, and Nyame says to me he will give me a great gift if I fill a sack with someone he wants."

Loki snorts, putting his coffee cup down on the table. "Is this really the time for a story?"

"Hush, fool, I don't interrupt your stories when you tell them," snaps Mr. Nancy. "Now, Nyame will not tell me what he wants, he says 'You think you're so clever, you figure it out', so I goes to the trees and I ask the birds, 'What do you think Nyame wants in a sack?', and the birds, they don't know. This was before, long ago, when we birds and spiders got along, you see, way, way back. And none of them can think of a single thing that Nyame would want in a sack. They know what birds want in a sack, food and seeds, twigs and fish. But that's not what Nyame wants. 

"So they each give me a feather, and I make these feathers into a big beautiful cloak, and the feathers, they help me fly."

"Freyja enjoys that very much, by the way," interjected Loki. Nancy slaps his white hand, which is reaching across the table for one of the biscuits on Mr. Nancy's plate. 

"I'm still mad you gave her my cloak, boy. Now this cloak, this beautiful feathered bird cloak, it lets me fly, and I fly up into the clouds and I sit in a tree next to Nyame's house, and I wait. And here is the point, is that listening is good for you. I sit there and I hear people talking about what a strange bird I am, wondering to themselves what kind of bird I must be, and why Nyame would make a bird like this. 

"They say to each other, 'Why Anansi might know what kind of bird that is, if he was clever,' and they laugh and laugh, because everybody knows that Anansi is the cleverest. 'Too bad,' they say, 'that Nyame send him on an impossible mission! He'll never know that Nyame wants the Sun and the Moon brought to him in the sack!

"And I jumps up! And I flies off to meet Python, who is the wisest, and I ask him how to capture the Sun and the Moon, and he says to me that the Sun sleeps in the West and the Moon wakes in the East, and if I am quick I will find them both. And I am quick, and I snatch them up and put them in my sack.

"When I bring them to Nyame, he is so pleased with me, he gives me all the stories all for my own, and he makes me captain on this here Earth. 

"So no matter how much you talk, you'd better be good at listening, because there's many a thing you can learn from listening, if you know what to listen to," Mr. Nancy finishes off his story.

Bruce laughs. It bubbles up from where he felt the Other Guy earlier, and it's a very different roil in his belly. It feels good. Loki doesn't bother hiding his own chuckles, and Anansi sits back with a big wide satisfied smile on his face. 

Sitting between the two men who are also spiders, and who are neither, Bruce understands what he saw earlier.

"Okay. Okay, then. Thank you for the story," he says to Mr. Nancy, standing. He holds his hand out to shake, and Mr. Nancy's thin hand is tiny in his bigger palm, and his lemon-yellow glove is softer than suede. Loki's hand is cold when Bruce shakes it, and his fingers are tough and calloused like the bark of a tree. "I'm heading to the clinic after this, I've got an afternoon shift. You have a good day," he says.

He leaves them, and doesn't even try to watch his back. Both because this Loki is not his Loki (and yet), and also because it wouldn't help at all. He'll never see them coming even if he was trying.

Spiders are good at slipping under the radar.

\---

 

**3\. Thief of the Giants**

 

Clint isn't supposed to be there, but they need a sniper and also someone famous, and those are never things that actually go together unless your sniper is also on the Avengers team, and therefore regularly on television. It's the thing Clint hates the most about the Avengers Initiative.

Insurgents have cornered a squad of British soldiers in the abandoned ruins of a small town, and reports indicate one of those soldiers has something Very Important for someone Very High Up. An American journalist trapped with them, newscasters and bureaucrats up in arms, and everyone is horribly angry and out of control. Agent Trent says in an undertone that Major Donovan needs to solve this problem as publicly and as quickly as possible, which is why they have called in Hawkeye.

Clint is not a military man (not even when he works for S.H.I.E.L.D.) but he knows when a situation's fucked up, and this is one of those. He is in the Command tent with the rest of the squad he's supposed to join, and they're going over plans. 

Trent elbows him where he has been studying the satellite images of the city, looking for good vantage points to hit in the operation. Even before Clint starts turning, he knows something is wrong. The atmosphere of the entire tent has changed, and everyone knows it.

His hair is red and curly and military short, but his eyes are the same, sharp flakes of green agate. He is smirking, and he is British SAS, and Trent introduces him as Captain Laufeyjarson, the man in charge of the mission.

"Agent Barton," he purrs. "It's a pleasure."

Clint doesn't pause. He just shoots Loki in the arm, thinking it was fucking good he ignored the private who had told him to leave off any weapons in the Command tent.

Captain Laufeyjarson falls back with a shout, and then everybody's shouting, and other people have brought guns in to the Command tent and they're all pointing at Clint's head.

"You son of a bitch," spits Clint. Loki gapes at him, clutching his bleeding arm, green eyes wide with shock, pale face rapidly losing color it can't afford. 

Clint has managed to surprise him. It's… surprising.

"Stand down, Barton!" Trent has moved herself between Clint and Loki, hands up in supplication. Her gaze is deeply and emphatically unimpressed, and the set of her mouth says that Clint will pay for this dearly when Fury hears about it, just as soon as she understands why the hell he's gone off the rails.

"That's Loki, sir," Clint grits out through his teeth.

Loki laughs. It's a soft huff, like he's helplessly amused. His blood is as red as any man's as it soaks the sleeve of his greens. The team medic doesn't have his supplies, but he's peeling the fabric away from the injury and is mopping up blood as best he can while he's stuck in the Command tent.

"And do you have something to say to me, Agent Barton?" Loki hisses, like acid.

"Why are you here? You should be locked up for what you did!" Clint says over Trent's shoulder, ignoring her completely.

"I have done many things." He grunts in pain as the medic presses clean fabric against the wound but otherwise ignores everything around them. "I've even been locked up for a few of them. Anything specific you had in mind?"

"New York, what else?"

"I've never been to New York." Loki looks at him with his piercing eyes, burning fierce, and sparking with horrible amusement. "Could you have mistaken me for someone else?" Then he grins wide, bares his teeth, and at some point he must have bit his lip, because there are smears of red at the corners of his mouth.

Clint's ears buzz, and then the sound from the rest of the tent rushes back all in a bare moment, and he remembers the rest of the world. Major Donovan is shouting, and so are the rest of Loki's SAS squad, and everyone's on their feet, and six people have forced themselves between Clint and the Captain.

The brass are frantically scraping together control over the tent, and the operation, and Clint backs off because they are running out of time to pull this rescue off. The situation's no less fucked up than it was earlier, so much as gone completely batshit.

They pull together enough sense of decorum to finish the debrief. The medic, in hurried agreement with Trent, sits Captain Laufeyjarson as far as fucking possible from Clint, and the rest of the squad sidles up like they think they're sneaky, to build a buffer around their Captain. Their loyalty sits squirming in Clint's stomach.

Fuck what he tells his therapists, he knows what that kind of loyalty feels like. Natasha has only pried bits and pieces out of him about it, and she's worked hard. Three bottles of her favorite Stoli were sacrificed to the cause and she's still only got the barest glimpse.

The men are stoic and attentive, and when they're released from the debrief they cluster around Loki and touch him gently, ask him how he's doing. They're respectful and deferential, and all of them act like Loki getting hurt is end of the world but they know better than to make a fuss about it.

Laufeyjarson puts up with the squad of enormous SAS soldiers mother-henning him with astonishing patience.

When he'd been hurt - before - and Clint had touched him, Loki hadn't been tolerant. He'd broken Clint's fingers. Then he had fixed them, because Clint needed his fingers to shoot, and the fixing had hurt almost as much as the crushing. The whole incident hadn't changed Clint's concern, he'd just learned to keep it to himself. Before he got better.

Clint shakes his head to clear his thoughts, and then again when Trent looks at him expectantly. He's got nothing to say.

Command dictates that Laufeyjarson isn't fit to go into the field anymore, despite his bitter looks and protests. They set him up on a headset though, still Captain and still leader, and Clint spends the entire operation with Loki's soft British voice whispering silver orders in his ear. 

It's incredibly distracting.

Laufeyjarson is a superb leader too, which almost makes it worse. He is unpredictable, and clever, and knows how to anticipate the opposition. The chaos that he feeds on gives him power, and Clint can feel a sympathetic blood rush of adrenalin and battle joy despite himself.

They win.

The media representatives consume the footage with glee, the American is rescued, and the Very Important Information is retrieved and hustled off to the Communications tent for decryption.

In the broadcast later, Hawkeye looks fantastically heroic, providing elaborate cover fire for the rescue squad that shows up as shadow-black ghosts, dodging through the twisting alleys and narrow passages of the ruined town, swarming the rebels and coming out the victors in each encounter.

Clint gives his report, and as he exits Command into the cold Afghanistan night for the last time, Laufeyjarson gives him an angry smirk from the shadows. His arm is in a sling and Clint feels creeping terror under the vindication.

He hopes he'll never see Loki again, in any incarnation. A god with a grudge is not something to be trifled with.

He wonders if there will be any repercussions, if he never comes to the desert again.

\---

 

**4\. Sly God**

 

Tony Stark knows he's the shit. And he makes a point to let everyone else know it too, with as loud and flashy a demonstration as physically possible.

So he throws a party, and invites everyone to it. 

(Stark Industries throws a party, and Pepper tells him it's a fundraiser, but Tony knows what's really important here, even if Pepper's priorities are all wrong)

They throw it in Paris, the City of Lights, in honor of new contracts and international relationships, as the Stark Tower, French Branch lights up for the first time. It's a vision of fairy lights hung in garlands and enormous gleaming lanterns suspended from the high-ceilings of the lower reception halls.

The party's a hit. Tony is so proud that he's almost bored to tears and is barely paying attention. So Pepper notices first.

All she says is "Wow," soft and breathless, her eyes widening and her hand lifting to stroke the side of her own neck. Her fingers tangle around a strawberry curl artfully loose from her hair, and twist. That's a goddamn beacon in the skies to Tony, who follows her gaze puffing up like a peacock.

Tony goes a step further, and says "Holy shit."

It's not that she's pretty. If she were pretty, than she'd be a bauble, arm candy at best, because the man she is with is a high-roller in the French government and Pepper's information packet she made him read said he was married, and not to a woman like that.

So no, it's not that she's pretty. She commands attention even as she shuns the gawkers. 

Pepper makes a tiny desperate noise in the back of her throat, and Tony turns to stare at her accusingly. She has the nerve to look offended before she says, "I mean, come on."

"Valid point," says Tony. He turns, and wraps an arm around Pepper as a reminder to them both, and together they watch the woman.

She's wearing gold, and the shimmering layers of the dress wrap around her like it loves her as much as everyone else wants to peel it off her. Her hips are full and curvy, and her bust is small, and to balance out the narrow tuck of her waist the line of her bodice rides low across her chest and shoulders. Her hair is long and dark and half-knotted in elaborate, unfeasible layers. 

She's dancing with Monsieur Government, sweeping across the floor, and when she gets close enough for Tony to see the emerald of her eyes he realizes he totally knows her and she was not invited.

"Hey Pep," he mutters, and Pepper giggles, and Tony can definitely follow her line of thought but it's so not okay now, so he takes decisive action.

He looses track of Loki when he accidentally-on-purpose spills Pepper's martini all over her (beautiful, she looks beautiful in it) green dress (but there are more important things than beauty, and that is Pepper and keeping her away from Loki, keeping her safe). He blames a passing waiter, tears the poor boy a new one until he's almost in tears, reminds himself to write him an excellent letter of recommendation when he inevitably quits from shame, and hustles Pepper off into the welcoming and extremely-proficient-with-guns arms of Rhodey with a demand that she change and come right back, he knows she's packed for it and he doesn't want her to miss a moment. 

When he finds her again, Loki is fucking M. Government in the coat closet. She's good too, murmuring between ecstatic gasps how big, how strong, how wonderful he is, all in breathless lilting French. Her moans aren't feigned, but Tony can't image a man with a gut like that could possibly be good in the sack, and then he hits himself in the head. 

He's already forgotten he's slipped the Iron Man gauntlet on, so it hurts.

Tony lurks outside the coat closet listening. At some point it gets incredibly awkward. 

To the point where Tony actually feels bad for eavesdropping.

M. Government begins to talk, loudly, uncontrolled, stuttering. Something about the breath of fire, and the kiss of wolves. He calls her feu-cheveux and mère de monstres and Coupe-monde, between unsteady rhythmic grunts. Loki's moans are like a chant.

Tony backs up and tries to bleach his mind.

After a high-pitched squeal that he can't pin on either of them in particular, M. Government whispers "Merci, _merci_ ," really, really loudly, and Tony just wants to put the man out of his misery.

He hides in a corner while M. Government stumbles out of the closet, still straightening the lines of his tuxedo (they're ruined, but they weren't even that good to begin with). When Loki exits several minutes later, she looks at Tony.

"So it's pretty much a given I throw the best parties. Guest list's still exclusive," he says. He powers up the repulser in the palm of his hand. "Did you come to finally snag that drink?"

"Vous ne m'avez pas offert un boisson," she says, slinking closer until she's in the same shadows as he is. "Mais je ne voundrais pas refuser un martini sec." 

"Well you did have other things on your mind," Tony says, after a minute. He definitely speaks French, he knows how to words, but holy _shit_ , her voice is actually like honey, how does that even happen? It just takes a moment to adjust his expectations. "Maybe you forgot. Dry martini, huh? That's --" he stops. "Not what you said before," he continues on a different thread.

"Je n'oublie pas, Monsieur Stark."

Between one step and the next she is a man, and even less familiar, because she wears a neatly trimmed goatee. Between the facial hair and the short black curls he looks - well, he looks like Tony. And never let it be said that Tony Stark doesn't appreciate the benefits of narcissism. 

Tony doesn't notice moment that she changes. He knows what she looked like, he can picture her as a woman (and how), but she might as well have been a man all night, for all that he can pinpoint the actual shift. The gold dress is a narrow gold waistcoat and a painfully well-tailored charcoal suit that would look equally good on the floor.

He's as handsome as a man as he was as a woman. Tony can almost hear Pepper make the same kind of 'but I want it' noise that she'd made earlier.

His voice is lighter than Tony thinks it should be, maybe an echo of the woman who sported his face and his name. He also speaks so smoothly it takes Tony several moments to remember what Thor had said about the Allspeak, which means if Loki is speaking French then he's doing it for a reason.

He considers the number of Avengers who speak French. Natasha (fluently), Thor (indirectly), and Tony himself (because he needed a language to graduate). It definitely means something, and Tony is fucked if he has a clue what.

"So. You're a - prostitute?" He says _prostituée_ , because the other word he knows is _putain_ , and Loki is about as much that as Tony is a sea-sponge. 90% of the markers are there, and yet there is a fundamental difference. He doesn't know a better word in French. Hell, he doesn't know a better word in English. Courtesan? Maybe if it didn't sound so froofy.

"Ma chair est sacrée. Mon corps est une église et les gens aiment à prier.." Loki leans in close to Tony and trails long fingers down the buttons of his suit jacket. "Pourquoi devrais-je leur nier?"

He smiles like sex, and it's only then that Tony sees the marks on his lips. Natasha mentioned scars once, he remembers. After Denmark.

"Oh. You're not the Loki I was thinking about."

Loki - strange, sexy French Loki - looks pleased and amused. "Avons-nous déjà rencontrés?" 

"You. He. He blew up New York and threw me out a window," says Tony.

"J'ai toujours voulu voyager," Loki says wistfully. He's clearly missed the part where blowing up New York is not a tourist attraction, and also so Not Cool. 

Tony decides abruptly to make a bad decision. What, he's been well behaved all night (except for Pepper's dress, but maybe -- maybe) and now he deserves a treat. That's how it works. This is definitely going to go well.

"Well I can't help you there," he says slowly. "But. Wanna travel 25 floors up the elevator? I know someone who'd love to worship you. Properly. Out of the closet, as it were. However you want, really, I'm pretty sure she's feeling flexible tonight."

"Et vous?" Loki bites Tony's ear. Tony bites his own tongue. Loki's lips are painted red when she pulls back and still scarred, now that he knows to look for them.

"I'm amazingly bendy. You'll be amazed."

This is a great idea.

It's a terrible plan.

He's never ever telling Thor. Ever.

\---

 

**5\. Cheat of the Gods**

 

Tony's brought the Avengers to Las Vegas. Team Bonding, he called it. 

Most of them are having fun. Earlier, Steve was having fun too, but now he's tired of the noise and the lights and the people. They're staying at the Bellagio, because of course they are, but mostly because Pepper still won't let Tony build a Stark Casino, so they can't just bounce from one Stark Tower to the next.

Not yet, at least.

Clint wanted to see the Eiffel Tower, Natasha asked to see a Cirque du Soleil show, and Thor wanted to try his hand at every slot machine with a lever he could find, but he would settle for as many goofy tourist traps as possible in a single day. Tony, because he's a glutton with no restraint, decided they should do all of them, and they've been moving all day.

Steve finds the most poorly-lit corner in the plethora of tiny bars and restaurants that line the sprawl of labyrinthine machines. The smoke makes his chest hurt and with the constant pinging it's a wonder nobody's been driven mad. 

Then again, he looks around, and thinks maybe they already have.

Steve's chosen retreat is behind the card games. He gets a double whiskey and opens a tab on Tony's card, because it's his fault they're all here, and even if Steve can't get drunk he can darn well try.

There are a few men sitting at one of the poker tables, but they're not playing anything yet, just chatting. Steve sidles up to them and insinuates himself into the conversation with his very best Captain America Smile.

It drops off his face like a rock when the man to his left looks up and turns out to be Loki.

"Spirit of America, what a surprise," Loki says, his voice low. The other men at the table look up. One of them is big, Thor big, with honest features and light grey eyes, and he watches them with a solemn face. The other is wearing a dark suit. Steve can't really describe him. Or see him properly, apparently, because every time he takes his eyes off the man he slips away.

"Liesmith. What are you doing here?" asks Steve. 

"Technically I'm visiting a friend," says Loki. He's got a pack of playing cards, which he's been shuffling about. "Care to join us?"

"I'm not a fan of poker," says Steve. "Do you play gin rummy?"

Loki smiles. "Don't like poker? A heathen in the house of the gods. Well, I'll be." 

The man in the dark suit, on the other side of the table, who Steve forgot was there says something.

"Sai rummy it is, then. Gefðu mér annan spilastokk, munum það að gera hlutina áhugaverðari. Sit, drink, be merry." Loki sounds like nothing could possibly be more troublesome than enjoying himself with others. He adds the second deck to the first, and splices them together.

Steve thinks about it. The Avengers are off gallivanting about in different directions. And there's nothing better to do.

He might as well keep an eye on Loki until he starts causing trouble.

The other men greet Steve. Loki introduces him as Andi Ameríku, and Steve corrects him gently and bemusedly. 

Loki shrugs. "Steve Rogers, then. This is Baldr, skínandi guð," he indicates the big man with grey eyes, and then he introduces the other man, in the dark suit, and Steve forgets his name immediately.

He doesn't want to seem rude though, so he doesn't ask Loki to repeat it more than once. Or twice.

"Nice to meet you," says Baldr. He's got a deep voice and a young face, and he's polite, but distant.

He's still polite though, which is more than Steve's seen this whole trip, and so Steve likes him more or less instantly. Also he's not Loki, who makes being friendly difficult, and also Steve knows his name so he's the best choice in striking up a conversation.

"So, do you like it in Vegas?" Steve asks, tentatively. He can't really see why anyone would like it in Vegas, but also he's aware that he's Old Fashioned. Tony hasn't stopped reminding him since they pulled him out of the ice.

"Oh please." Loki cuts the deck, bridges the cards, and shuffles again. "It's the armpit of America."

"It's not that bad," says Baldr, with a wry smile.

"Þú ert hræðilegt lygari," Loki says. 

Baldr shoots him a wink. "You'd know best."

The man in the dark suit says something, and Steve agrees. "I don't know a lot about it, but I guess it has it's charms."

Loki casts him a sour look that says he knows Steve's being contrary just to disagree and he is not amused.

Steve is amused though, so he grins cheekily, and is perfectly content.

Steve offers to get drinks before they start a round. When he comes back he's got another whiskey for himself, a double gin and tonic for Loki, a beer for Baldr, and then he's still holding a glass of a swampy Laphroaig and he can't remember why.

The man in the dark suit gestures for it, and Steve hands it over laughing at himself, forgetting why he's forgotten him again.

Loki deals. Baldr swipes the deck from him, gathers the cards up, and deals again.

"I've seen your coin tricks," Loki tosses out. "You're no less a cheat than I am." But he says it with a grin, and everyone has a quick laugh.

They play a hand. Baldr gets a good number of melds. Several rounds of drinks. Loki sets down even more.

Steve draws what must be 800 cards and none of them are any good. He gets three runs.

Steve asks Loki why he's here if he hates Vegas so much.

Loki snorts and flicks a card at Steve from the discard pile. "I hate everything in this country. If I'd had my way mitt fólk would have stayed in Iceland, and I'd be a proper god. Ameríka er hræðileg staður fyrir guði."

Loki's dark smile makes Steve uncomfortable. Baldr's face goes stony and sad, and the other man makes a soft humming noise. "There's only one God," Steve says, awkwardly. It's true, for him.

"Yeah. He's around here somewhere, too," says Loki. "There's barely any room for all of us here. And you lot have given that bastard Anansi all my stories." He says it like someone's eaten his food without asking, or borrowed his shoes while he was trying to wear them.

Baldr lays down a meld, "You know, I saw Fat Charlie the other week. He'd come in from St. Andrews to meet some of the others. He's a nice kid."

"He's a dancing fool," snipes Loki, and he flicks a card at Baldr this time.

"You're whiney," says Steve. He blinks, surprised at himself. He might be getting drunk.

When Baldr laughs, it's a big laugh. He tosses his head back, and slaps the table once, and he has to wipe his eyes. The man in the dark suit laughs too, but Steve can't remember what it sounded like.

"This asshole is one of of the great Pantheon of the North, and you've got him pegged exactly. Man, you can stay," says Baldr, "Good heart like that? He'll never fall for your cons," he adds to Loki, who just grumbles and glares.

The man in the dark suits says something and it sets everyone off laughing, even Loki, who starts begrudgingly and ends helplessly holding his stomach. Steve's got cramps and he's gasping for breath before he notices he can't remember what was so funny.

He says this out loud.

The three gods laugh again, and they don't stop until they're crying and Steve starts throwing cards at all of them.

The game deteriorates from there.

Loki's won the most that Steve notices, but when they do their final tallies the man in the dark suit has come out way ahead. Only Steve is surprised by this, and both Loki and Baldr nod in deference to a true master.

Steve did terrible, but he was playing against gods, so he's willing to cut himself some slack.

He stands after the final count, and goes to settle Tony's tab. When he gets back to the table a single deck of cards is sitting neatly stacked at his seat, and the gods are gone. He pockets the cards.

Tony finds him a minute later, and Steve joins them all to see the Bellagio fountain display for the third time that afternoon. Thor has decided it's the best thing since Pop-Tarts, seeing as he can't eat the slot machines and he's not allowed to smash them. It's fun, and Steve enjoys himself.

Vegas? Not terrible.

\---

 

**+1. Whetstone Skulled**

 

Thor is on his scheduled diplomatic visit to Asgard when they meet Thor in Iceland. 

Fury wants the Avengers to investigate and possibly kill the monster that is allegedly thrashing its way down the Norwegian Sea to the North Atlantic. Whatever it is, it's making geologists frantic at the idea the Grímsvötn volcano might erupt again, and so soon after the last one, and frequent quakes have terrorized the locals for almost a week. If the volcano erupts that's several hundred people who need to vacate their homes and probably another international airway disaster.

The quinjet lands on a black sand beach on the south side of Vatnajökull National Park, and the air is cold but not (hah) icy.

The ripples in the water swell and crest, and something moves underneath in shining coils.

"Okay, people, what are we dealing with and do we need to kill it?" says Steve, getting as close to the softly lapping waves as he can without getting his boots wet.

They hear a noise from behind them.

A 4x4 pulls up, the kind designed to drive on rugged terrain, and Thor gets out.

They know, this time, immediately that this Thor is not the Thor they have worked with for the past year. He is somehow more raw, far more earthy, is wrapped in several layers of sweaters, and doesn't look nearly as much like an extra in Lord of the Rings. He's got a hammer tucked in his belt, but it looks more practical, more like a blacksmith's hammer. Actually, he looks like an L.L. Bean model on his day off.

His hair is long and braided in sections and his beard is hilariously ginger.

"So," says Tony, slowly, faceplate and eyebrows raised. "If that's a Thor… does that mean -"

Natasha thinks about Denmark, Bruce about St. Andrews. Steve doesn't really remember that night in Vegas, but he's pretty sure it ended with 52 card pick-up. Tony still hasn't told anyone about Paris (and never, ever will). Clint shot a god and survived only because that was the least that happened that day.

"Well he's not here," says Natasha. "Jeep's empty."

They call him by his name, which he's clearly not expecting. He's also not expecting them to start hooting and hollering. Clint jumps up and down and waves both arms.

He picks his way over to them, and smiles. His smile is familiar, and also extremely weird.

"Can I help you guys?" He says in English. That's something odd - he's speaking English with an Icelandic accent (which is an extremely clear not-quite-American accent) which means he's making an effort to not speak Icelandic.

They've achieved his attention. Clint looks at Natasha, who looks at Bruce, who looks at Steve, who pushes Tony forward to actually talk to the not-Thor Thor (who is maybe even more Thor than their Thor).

"Hey there Point Break," says Tony, holding out a gauntleted hand. Þórr's fingers are big and boxy, and dwarf Iron Man's, but they're gentle with several thousand years of experience dealing with the fragile mortals who give him life. "We're the Avengers, we know you. Sort of. A you - a version of you, kind of -"

Bruce pushes him out of the way before Þórr's face can go any more slack in incomprehension. He's wearing fuzzy mittens and a parka.

"We work with one of your counterparts," he says in his low voice. He smiles shyly and charmingly. "He's back home right now, but it's amazing to meet you."

"The Avengers," says Þórr. "I've heard of you. You fight - threats?"

Bruce nods, and the others nod with him. "Bad guys, yeah. We're mostly based out of New York, but we handle international stuff too, when we're asked."

"So you're here for the sea-thread, then?" says Þórr.

No one knows what that means. 

"Jörmungandr," he clarifies. "The - the snake?" he jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the ocean. "Midgard's Serpent. It's a snake. Loki's son."

Steve drops his shield. It lands on Natasha's foot and she punches him in the side. "Are you serious?"

"Loki says it's global warming. Jörmungandr doesn't like the north as much any more because the ice doesn't freeze properly. Excuse me, I'll be right back."

He trots down to the beach edge, and wades in up to his knees in freezing arctic sea. Then he cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, and it sounds like thunder. The Avengers cluster closer to the water line, but stay there when Þórr motions them back.

The serpent rises, its scales flashing, and the water churns around it. Howling and hissing, it's probably a hundred feet long. It lunges at Þórr, who grabs it about the neck (wider than he is) and throws it down into the shallows.

Þórr doesn't use his hammer at any point. He just grapples with the serpent, letting it attack and parrying it aside. It's more like sparing than a fight, except for the way the earth trembles every time Þórr pins the serpent, and the sky roils with darkening clouds when Þórr is knocked over. 

The water is foaming and frothy, icy sprays leaping up towards the Avengers, who move back several paces to avoid the flailing tail of the sea monster. 

Finally, soaked to the bone and panting, Þórr grabs Jörmungandr at his narrowest, just above the razor sharp tail fins, and with a great bellow, he hurls the snake up out of the ocean. Actually lifts the serpent in the air over his head (and they thought Thor was strong). His face is as red as his beard, and the serpent goes flying, farther out than they had seen it when they first arrived, and with an enormous splash it lands in the deep waters.

It seems more miffed than viciously angry, as it turns and swims north, back to the Arctic Sea. 

Þórr slogs his way back out of the water, and strips off three sweaters and two pairs of pants in the middle of the beach. He walks naked back to his Jeep, and puts all the soggy clothes in a plastic bag, apparently that he'd brought just for that. He's got more sweaters in another bag, and long thermal underwear, a pair of flannel-lined jeans, and extra boots.

He looks like a slightly-damp lumberjack, who's just had a wonderful time.

Aside from the way he wrestled a sea serpent into submission, Þórr is absurdly human. Fond of sweaters and carrying a hammer, yes, but he's way more normal than their Thor, who interacts with the microwave like it's a foul beast he has to conquer in order to eat his leftovers.

This Thor pulls out a cellphone from the glove compartment of his car, and says "Loki!" in a loud and cheerful voice, that their Thor hasn't used toward his brother in months. "Góðan daginn Loki, það er gott að heyra frá þér líka."

He starts to pace, holding the phone to his ear. He kicks at the black ash sand as he walks and chats. "Sonur þinn segir hæ. Við höfum átt talað um að koma suður." He pouts. "Nei, ég vil það ekki. Hann er sonur þinn."

Þórr turns back to them, who are still watching him, and he makes a squawking motion with the hand that's not holding the phone and exaggerated bored face. Clint snorts. 

"Ég er hinn mesti frændi.. Við erum enn á fyrir kaffi? Ég hef sögu að segja þér. Allt í lagi, mun ég sjá þig seinna."

He hangs up, and holds his tiny phone in his enormous hands almost nervously. "Well, I'm supposed to meet Loki for coffee later, do you all want to come? I'm sure he'd love to meet you, you could tell me more about this Thor of America."

"I'm - not sure that's a great idea," says Steve, slowly. "We've met him too. And. Haven't gotten along."

Þórr looks positively crushed. "Well, can we talk again later? I've never left Iceland, I'd like to hear about the rest of the world."

"Sure," says Natasha, stepping neatly around Steve. "Here's my number." She hands him an Avengers business card that directs straight to JARVIS in New York. "Give us a call some time, it'll be fun." 

Þórr drives off in his big 4x4, promising to call, and the Avengers stand on the beach for a few more minutes.

"Thor's never gonna believe this," says Clint.

"I still don't believe this," says Tony.

Bruce laughs a little under his breath. "I've seen stranger."

**Author's Note:**

> this is where I shout that anything in this fic that's not in English was achieved through generous applications of Google Translate to the point of abuse, so if anyone speaks Russian, Danish, French (i'm sorry), or Icelandic (so sorry) and finds faults in said mangled languages, please let me know!  
> I wish to enhance my writing, not make your brains bleed.
> 
> everything researched was primarily done through things I've already read in fics and also wikipedia, which I'm sure gives you great confidence as to the accuracy. 
> 
> if you read it, I hope you enjoyed it! <3


End file.
